The Carriers: The 101st Hunger Games
by a-grey-flower
Summary: In the wake of the Capitol's smashing centennial, the daunting task of the follow-up falls to the Gamemakers, who must capture the attention of their flighty audience while maintaining quarantine against the Districts. Oh, and 23 children lose their lives and human dignity. SYOT OPEN. 8/24 spots remaining.
1. Prologue: Silver Platter

**Prologue: Silver Platter**

When a Gamemaker declared something complete, you had done your job. When a Gamemaker told you to take pride in your work, your work was in rare form.

Or, perhaps you had met a rare form of Gamemaker.

This was the justification of games engineer Pyramus Crewe as he carved his initials in a rancid shack just below the disguised camera. He repeated it to himself once more as he clinked glasses during work hours with a pretty, young redhead, while last year's Quarter Quell played on the screen behind them.

They had met that day: the deaf-to-praise engineer and the Gamemaker who spoke it like a native language.

She was speechless for the whole first minute of their encounter. This suited Pyramus just fine, as the build was far from done, and he needed focus. He could hear her footfalls, though, as she whirled about the grimy abode like a new homeowner. No—no home-buyer would step anywhere near this place. She was a first-time artist who had just stepped inside her own painting.

"Were you an artist in a past life?" Were her first words to him. Her voice came from close to his ear. Pyramus pondered this new development and found he didn't mind.

"A set designer, actually," he responded. "And sometimes it does feel like a past life."

For the first time in their brief exchange, something besides excitement flashed across her face. Anticlimax? Pity? Theatre was a dying art in a utopia with its fingers constantly stretched toward the next, newest phenomenon. The nostalgic had been trying to stretch the genre for decades. But even the most avant-garde product of the stage didn't stand a chance against the hot new anti-gravity nightclub. Or a sim film that put the viewer right in the action.

It was the reason he left the stage in the end. He had exchanged his paints for spray-on dust and mold growth mixtures, and he had accepted with eagerness the task to build this Gamemaker's vision from the ground up. Not that he didn't make a decent living either way. But if what he produced never reached anyone, what was the point? The Hunger Games, in contrast, was a pandemic phenomenon. Here, he could at least tell himself reasonably that his work was worth something.

Could someone with his eye for detail aspire to become a Gamemaker himself one day? Perhaps. But Pyramus had always preferred the groundwork. Working with one's own hands was the only level on which perfection was attainable.

Perfection was a taste not yet familiar to him, but he would know it. He was sure of it. He had spent his whole life feeling so damn _dissatisfied _and just wanted it to end.

"Well either way, this is _perfect,_" came a gushing reply. "Head Gamemaker Long said it couldn't be done, you know. She was nagging and nagging about how hard it is to make a shelter survivalist, but she'll eat her words when she sees what we've built. Tell you what—I 'm going to commission a break for you. Then I can buy you a drink, and the first thing we'll do is toast to Capitol mobility."

She had sensed his hesitation and laughed. She reminded him to trust her judgement and take some ownership of his work. Finally, she dropped a hint that the Pulse was currently airing reruns of the 100th, which was what caused him to relent in the end. The Pulse was his favorite sport bar. And he would never miss a Hunger Games showing, particularly last year's Quarter Quell.

_ "For this centennial Hunger Games, we will pay homage to this nation that the Capitol and her Districts have forged in tandem, each performing their allotted roles. Representatives from each District will therefore be allowed to submit one design choice to be incorporated into this year's Arena."_

Initially, commentators puzzled. Critics blustered. Even Pyramus' friends on the build team were quick to note the lack of usual Capitol flair in the piecemealed designs. Where's the real Quell? Capitolites everywhere demanded. The one we've waited decades for.

Then came the systematic sabotage and slaughter of each tribute by their own District's design choice.

The attitude reversal to follow was the quickest and most dramatic Pyramus had ever seen.

And that was before the apocalyptic-proportioned finale.

Currently playing on the Pulse's bigscreen were the interviews. Good. Not long before the action picked up. Pyramus recognized the face of their victor—Zenalia Koehr—onstage. She had been a ruthless competitor, surprising for an outer district. Which one, he couldn't remember. It was getting harder to keep track of them all nowadays.

His companion had gone off to get drinks while he remained at their table. His eyes were on the screen. His mind was miles away, back in the one-room hut in an Arena-to-be.

The intrigue of his present company wasn't enough to distract from the restlessness. True—he had followed her advice. He had carved his initials hoping that it might help him take ownership as she suggested. But looking back, it felt almost dishonest, like signing a work of art that wasn't his. He'd this same problem with every single one of his set pieces back on the stage, but he was able to justify any shortcomings as being "good enough" for the demanding deadlines. This was different. He had the time. There was something deliberately lazy to this that caused him unease.

Back on screen, Zenalia stood to amiable applause. She was a lot thinner then than she was on her victory tour. It had been a sight to behold: the once sullen and starved tribute triumphant, healthier than she had been her whole life, quicker to smile.

His hostess had returned, two tall drinks in tow. He returned her smile. He tried to soak up the contentment that all these patrons exuded. He had won this Gamemaker's admiration. What more was there to earn? What was he trying to prove?

"To the uphill climb," the Gamemaker beamed. Pyramus obliged her. He thought back on his own journey from set-builder to game-builder; he found it did not satisfy.

Even as they drank deeply, he couldn't ignore the knowledge that there were milestones far worthier of a toast. That he had climbed an inch to Zenalia Koehr's mile.

**Author's Note:**

Welcome all, and happy Hunger Games!

Why am I here? Well, I've read a couple of these and I want to try my hand. I'm also in a very technical education program and haven't done much in the way of writing lately. So what better way to redevelop the skill than to adopt 24 characters, give them life, and then immediately rip it away by forcing them to kill each other in horrifyingly gruesome ways?

0:)

I wanted to lay a couple of ground rules for the submission process. First, I'll only accept tributes through PM. No exceptions, unfortunately.

Second, only one tribute per reader. If I'm coming up dry on tributes, I may bend this rule, but considering the rate at which SYOTs are manifesting themselves on this website, I think it should hold.

Finally, I want people, not plot devices. Really put some thought into your character. Who are they? Why are they the way they are? Has their story ever been told before? Is it interesting? Unique? All the ingredients for life should be there—I'm just the spark that wakes them up.

Coming back to the whole STEM education thing. It's a busy life. I can't guarantee speed 100% of the time. But what I do write I'll try to keep engaging. Hopefully. You can make that call based on my prologue.

**Tribute Submission Form**

Name:

Age:

Appearance:

District:

Where they live (home):

Family/Friends:

History:

Most/least favorite memory:

Personality:

Likes/Dislikes:

Greatest Ambition:

Greatest Fear:

Reaction to being reaped/Why they volunteered:

Token:

Training Strategy:

Arena Strategy:

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Weapon of choice:

Alliance yes/no:

Why they should win:

*OPTIONAL*

Interview Angle:

Chariot Costume:

What they showed the Gamemakers:

Any other useful trivia:


	2. Prologue: Golden Age

**Prologue: Golden Age**

From the Communications Log of Nikia Long, Head Gamemaker: 21/05, 101 CE

**From:** Overt, Creon

**To: **Long, Nikia

**Subject: **Engineering Update

3:48:12 21/05/101

_Test no. 12 complete. Fog solution (day 4) achieved desired physiological effects. Unable to coalesce above 6°C. Request 18 additional hours, VF101D9008 solute (100L) for our chemists, and a replacement Avox sent to testing._

_Sincerely,_

_Creon Overt _

_Chief Engineer_

* * *

**From:** Long, Nikia

**To: **Overt, Creon

**Subject: **RE: Engineering Update (2)

3:54:05 21/05/101

_Request granted, not without reservation. This is your last extension for this project. Figure it out._

_Nikia Long_

_Head Gamemaker_

* * *

**From:** Long, Nikia

**To: **Long, Nelius

**Subject: **RE: SOTU Post-Centennial (42)

4:02:38 21/05/101

_I'm afraid I haven't yet tuned into today's reapings; rest assured you will know my thoughts when I do. I deserve a long night in after what I've been through._

_Free minutes have been hard to come by today, particularly due to the incompetence of this year's engineering team. Less than two weeks before the start of the Games, and Overt just now put in a request for eighteen additional hours on the fog project. Eighteen! A district three team could do better. Hell, a district _ten_ team could do better._

_I suppose we can only be grateful for how quickly we've been receiving supplies. Otherwise, we'd have no Arena to speak of. There'll be turnover this year for sure._

_~N_

* * *

**From:** Finch, Rina

**To: **Long, Nikia

**Subject: **Reminder: Invitation

4:30:14 21/05/101

_This is your final reminder that President Vinere will be hosting a post-reapings gala TONIGHT at Club Vertigo—the rooftop of Lacquer Offices. This exclusive celebration starts promptly at midnight and will end at dawn. _

_We anticipate your presence and your RSVP._

_Sincerely,_

_Rina Finch_

_Secretary to Gomorra Vinere, President_

* * *

**From:** Long, Nelius

**To: **Long, Nikia

**Subject: **RE: SOTU Post-Centennial (43)

4:46:59 21/05/101

_Get back to me when you can about those tributes. Mum's already pestering me about getting in early on the betting pools, and we could use your perspective. Gotta say the D2's look especially promising this year, but that's just my observation._

_Admit it, you've got my Peacekeepers to thank for the supply surplus. I suppose the 100__th__ helped somewhat though. D7 production in particular is up 48% from last year. That forest fire finale certainly made an impression._

_-N_

* * *

**From:** Vox, Scion

**To: **Long, Nikia CC: Vinere, Gomorra

**Subject: **

4:59:05 21/05/101

_Another year of reapings done! I can hardly contain my excitement!_

_Attached is the list of this year's tributes, as well as the personal files the team and I managed to dig up. I hope you find it useful._

_Happy Hunger Games!_

_Scion Vox_

_Capitol Media_

* * *

**Tribute List**

District 1: Luxury

Male:

Female: Juliet Rose (14) ~ [Annabeth Pie]

District 2: Masonry

Male:

Female:

District 3: Technology

Male: Etan Dacker (18) ~ [Radio Free Death]

Female: Curious "Curie" Subject (13) ~ [DefoNotAFangirl]

District 4: Fishing

Male: Remy Pyne (18) ~ [My-Mental-Mind]

Female: Brooke Silversea (12) ~ [Dragon Silvertongue]

District 5: Power

Male: Mike Quail (16) ~ [WhymsicalBell]

Female: Leigh Davison (17) ~ [IciclePower33]

District 6: Transportation

Male: Calix Kingfisher (17) ~ [SH Reke]

Female:

District 7: Lumber

Male: Mickey Romalas (16) ~ [AlexFalTon]

Female: Elara Aspen (16) ~ [liliblossoms]

District 8: Textiles

Male: Darrion Hackshaw (16) ~ [pl16-16-16-16]

Female:

District 9: Grain

Male:

Female: Sadie Miller (14) ~ [x I Got You First x]

District 10: Livestock

Male: Rosswell Hickey (18) ~ [winsomewinter]

Female: Georgina "Georgie" Lamrock (14) ~ [pigeonpoo]

District 11: Produce

Male:

Female:

District 12: Coal

Male:

Female:


	3. Prologue: Crystal Ball

**Prologue: Crystal Ball**

* * *

_It was the dawning of the twelfth day. The splintered remains of the career pack dug feverishly at the gray rock beneath the cornucopia. _

_The pair had been working for quite some time, having been roused from their sleep some hours ago by a high-pitched whine. This year's cornucopia was nestled at the bottom of a deep pit of rock. Spiral pathways up the walls led up to ground level. The pit showed signs of having been previously dug, making the rock more pliable and their job easier._

_The boy from District Two swung his pickaxe with relish at the ground. Between this year's shoddy excuse for a career pack, the meager, poorly placed cornucopia, and the general lack of action over the past week, frustration had been agglomerating in his mind like a blood clot. Every strike was a release. He smiled with grim satisfaction at the though of what they might find. Maybe this would be the weapon to finally put an end to these blasted games._

_The boy from District Three worked quietly with a spade. He had a crazed look about him and would stop every so often to wince. Musically trained, he had insisted he could hear a humming from the moment the pack had first set foot in the cornucopia. Whatever was down there had been slowly chipping away at his sanity and sleep ever since. But it was electronic. That much was clear. And he winced again and thought of finally being able to make sense out of something in this infernal arena. He dug faster._

_At last, the pickaxe strike rung out like a bell. There was something buried beneath here after all. Something metal. The two boys exchanged curt grins and hastened to clear away the layer of stone. The metal sheet was seemingly attached to something quite large. The grins disappeared. Who knew how long clearing the rest of the stone away would take?_

_The drone increased in pitch._

_A small inscription had been carved into the metal. The boy from Three bent down to read it. He came up wide-eyed and ashen._

_"What sort of rock is this?" he rasped._

_The boy from Two rubbed a few flakes between his fingers. "Graphite." _

_No sooner than the word had escaped him, he added up the pieces. Save the dark rings around his eyes, he grew very white indeed. "They wouldn't."_

_"We gotta get out of here, _now_."_

_Tools forgotten, the two remaining careers sprinted as far from the center of the pit as they could manage. They forcefully stumbled their way up the path. They scrabbled for handholds and sent loose stones flying. The boy from Three gave a cry as the drone—now a cacophonous siren—split the air. The sound gnawed at his eardrums. This was more abrasive than nails on a blackboard. It was like the interference from two microphones—wired directly into his brain._

_So loud…and so hot…the air scalding…could swear his shoes were melting…_

_The explosion swallowed them both before they even had time to hear it._

_For the eight surviving tributes, the blast sent shockwaves to the core._

_Both District Ten tributes, laying low in the ocher wheat fields, were jolted from rest. What they had first taken to be a brilliant sunrise emerging from the stalks burned white-hot before their eyes. Waves of heat sent ripples through the grain. The flames weren't far behind._

_The pair cut a frantic path through the field. The fire glowed brightly behind them, devouring stalks, leaving behind flaky, charred remains. But it wasn't enough. It was hungry for flesh. They ran even as the flames bit at their heels, as the smoke coiled above the flames in an intricate dance. _

_They made for the pond, unaware that within mere minutes of finding refuge, one of them would be boiled alive._

_In a tunnel beneath the earth, two tributes circled each other: the boy from Six, an array of gleaming throwing knives on his belt, the girl from Twelve, armed with a sledgehammer. The explosion had caught them off guard, but they were prepared to dismiss it._

_Until the girl sniffed the air and stiffened._

_She swung ferociously, nowhere near her opponent. Instead, her hammer reduced a wooden support to splinters. The boy, who had laughingly tried to take advantage of the opening by throwing a knife, had to instead dive out of the way of a shower of rocks and dust. By the time he rose, she was already sprinting away. Grumbling, he attempted to shift some of the rock. His hands blackened with fine powder. _

_He suddenly paused in his efforts. Had he smelled it then? The odor of an overheated engine?_

_Another explosion. Another drowned-out cannon. _

_At the top of a lone tree that stood twice the height of the forest around it, the young girl from District Seven fumbled with the rope around her waist. The wood roared with flame beneath her. Her eyes stung with smoke and tears. _

_For a remarkable three hours, news outlets were very taken by her death. Countless online articles called it "The Burning at the Stake." They would soon be buried in countless more, and viewers would forget all about it._

_By the end of the day, the Centennial Games saw its final four emerge from the ashes. The names of the six who had met their deaths were quickly left behind._

_Before the very eyes of the remaining tributes, the Arena turned to dust. Painted with shadow. Bathed in flame._

* * *

The picture froze during an aerial shot of flame-consumed hellscape.

_"Ladies and gentlemen, host of the Crystal Ball News Hour, and your commentator for the one-hundred-and-_first_ Hunger Games…Scion Vox!"_

The spotlight flared to life to reveal a slight man lounging in the host's chair. The silver in his hair, tooth, and fingernails twinkled under the lights. His crystal eye scattered rainbows into the air.

"Please, folks, let's give our guest some credit." He waved a hand. His every motion caught the eye with a sparkle. "I give you Isbeth Elan, mastermind behind that wonderfully _explosive _finale!"

The public face of the Gamemakers swiveled her own chair to turn her back on the carnage behind her. She had dressed to match her handiwork. A layered, orange gown twinkling with black gemstones at the bodice graced her features. Her red hair, left loose, clashed rather pleasingly with the garment.

"Scion, dear, you don't know how happy you made me!" Isbeth beamed. "It's every designer's dream to be called a mastermind, you know!"

"It's the truth, Isbeth! I don't get paid to whisper sweet nothings in your ear. If I could, I'd be the first to admit you might not have a host anymore." The Capitol roared with laughter at their feet. "Of course, it's only fair that you share such remarkable intelligence with the rest of us. How about a spoiler or two for this year's Arena? What can we expect?" Scion assumed a curious posture and prepared himself to appear surprised.

It was all an act, of course. The most careful man in the Capitol, Scion believed firmly that the time for research came well before, not during, any interview. He knew what his guests would bring to the discussion long before they thought it themselves.

Once in his grasp, the information was his to spin.

"Well…I'm _really _not supposed to…" There was silence, a collective, held breath. Isbeth traced the curvature of her upper lip with her tongue. "Let's just say…I'm expanding my repertoire this year."

"No explosion this time?" Scion pouted. Some laughed. Others mimicked him.

"No," Isbeth laughed, "we've decided to go…subtler this year. Subtle can be thrilling too, though. It's the excitement that grabs you when you least expect it."

Scion nodded. "Well said, my dear Gamemaker. I can't say I won't miss that wildfire though."

"Well, what we've got is definitely more…_catching_ than a wildfire." Isbeth seemed to catch herself. "And that's all you're getting from me, you rascal!"

Scion winked conspiratorially at the audience, and the Capitol was sold.

"If I may," Scion continued amidst the uproar, "Head Gamemaker Nikia Long said in her most recent public statement that the best designers weave stories into their work. What I want to know is…what on earth can the story be behind such an explosion?"

"Simple." Isbeth shifted forward. "Left unchecked, the Districts can only pose danger to one another. It is the guiding hand of the Capitol that can truly unite them and lead them to reach their true value."

Murmurs of agreement swept like ripples through the audience. The poor, backwards Districts. So set in their ways and persistent in their warmongering.

"And this year?" Scion pressed, eagerness evident in his voice.

But to that end Isbeth's lips were sealed for the rest of the night. This, as it turns out, was exactly what Scion had anticipated.

Nothing spiked viewing figures like a restless audience.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

* * *

**Hi, Grey here with one final, cobbled-together prologue chapter before I get to tackle some of these reapings. Think of it as my action-writing warm-up piece. **

**I'm excited with who I've received so far, and I sincerely hope I can do them justice. ****If you're reading this and haven't yet submitted a tribute, I implore you to do so! There's plenty of room at the party, and I promise they'll be well taken care of. Until they're, you know, horrifically murdered. See Chapter 2 for a list of available spots. Don't be afraid to reach out with any questions, or just to chat! I love making new friends.**

**A special thanks to all those who've reviewed thus far! For a developing writer, reviews are like tiny love letters, even the more critical ones. :) Needless to say reviews make my day. There are also sponsor points and virtual hugs at stake, if that at all prompts you.**

**Cheers,**

**Grey**


	4. D5: The Engineer and the Bodyguard

**Mike Quail | District 5 | 16**

* * *

It was five o' clock in the morning, and everyone in the Hydroelectric District had gathered by the water's edge to wait on the upstream ferry. This particular ferry ride was mandatory, so when I say everyone, I mean the _whole Dam District._

We adopted the nickname for obvious reasons.

Dan craned his neck to see above the heads of the crowd, squinting upriver. The air was thick with nervous chatter and the roar of the river in motion beneath us, so he had to speak significantly above his usual volume to be heard. "Nothing yet."

Alfred glanced at his watch and scoffed. "Late again, looks like. Typical."

"One of these days we'll get wise and set a later alarm," Dan agreed, smirking.

"Well, since we have the time…" Maurice began, and all three pairs of eyes, gleaming with the excitement I had tried to suppress, turned toward me. I looked down in response. A grin, however, slowly made its way across my face.

"I don't know…" I mumbled, "…I was going to wait until after. You know, as self-congratulations for not dying another year."

Dan groaned. "You've never eaten dessert first in your life, have you? It's called _instant gratification, _ya nerd_._ Don't deprive yourself."

"It probably won't even be that much, guys."

"At the very least you could buy something nice from the Centre Square," Alfred pointed out. "Not like you're putting it towards college or anything," he added off-handedly.

"Look, he's smiling; we got him!" Dan grabbed my shoulders and marched me away from the crowd, towards the dam. Alfred followed suit, and Maurice followed sheepishly behind. "To the Dam Post Office!"

The centerpiece of our subdistrict is a towering dam. To take advantage of this middle ground, all our local public offices had been built up around it through the years. This included ferry transportation upriver, this subsector's Peacekeeper hub, and of course, the post office. Upstream of the dam dwelled the sector's wealthy. Downstream, shadowed by sheer cliffs and down crumbling stone steps hewn into the earth, lived the—shall we say—less well off. Folks like me and the guys. So, guess who drowns first if the dam ever breaks!

District Five covers enough ground to have its own subsections. You've got the Turbine District—wind power. The Geothermal District—self-explanatory. The district centre handles the bulk of the processing. There are others, each with their claim to fame. We've got the dam. And I'll be honest—I'll only go up there if I have to. It's a trek up at least a hundred worn-away stairs with unsteady railings, and I don't much care for dealing with the hoard of dam Peacekeepers who parade the public buildings. But when I do have to, there's always this _moment_ after I make it to the top when I lean against the rail, when I listen to the dam magnify the smallest of sounds and gaze past my small and familiar neighborhood. I see light where the river meets the sky, and it all becomes worth it for that short minute.

The view is inspiring, I've come to find. It's where I came up with the idea for my first invention.

See, looking down at the dam, you're struck by its stillness. But it's precisely the principle of motion that makes it so effective. Beneath your feet, huge turbines are kicked into gear by the blunt, continuous force of the river. We just don't see it behind the colossal façade. It's the movement—not the dam itself—that produces the power. I think sometimes that's taken for granted, just like how the world around us is constantly in motion and we don't notice. From motion comes energy. And so many opportunities to store that energy go to waste. It's the little, everyday motions that, when taken advantage of, add up.

In the end, it was the turbines that kicked my mind into gear. I just had to make them easier to work with. I devoted nearly a half a year to this construction. During class, I drew plans. While others took on part-time jobs, I tinkered with scrap metal in the basement. My final prototype was barely an inch in diameter, but it was dense and had a solid moment of inertia for its size. Wiring it up to a battery was simple. Designing the fixture proved trickier, but in the end, I produced an attachment that would screw onto a common tap.

Now, imagine that every time you turned on a faucet, you added a little bit of charge to a battery. I'll be the first to admit that it's not much individually. The size constraints don't offer much to work with. But the big picture? The energy from every single little kinetic motion being stored for later use? It would be the dawn of a new system for District Five, and even Panem itself.

All new inventions have to go through the Capitol, so I'd applied for the patent as soon as I'd perfected the prototype and gathered the necessary documentation. That was a year and a half ago. I haven't been given any official word on the matter. But every so often, a check will come in the mail, nondescript except for a Capitol seal. It's always been a pitiful sum—mere pennies, the first time. But it's something. I can only assume the patent is mine, and that the invention is being used sparsely in a niche field.

Is it too much to hope for? To one day make it big? Well, anything's possible. My friends maintain the same. They're my support team. I can always count on them for an extra set of hands, unique perspectives, and a steady stream of optimism.

They all cheered loudly when we found a new envelope in my family's lockbox, and I couldn't help but be encouraged. Maybe today was the day…

And then I examined the contents.

"Half as much as last time," I said quietly. One by one, the others fell silent.

"But…that's not right," Maurice said desperately. "You've had exponential growth in income since the first day. I plotted it and everything…" He looked away, muttering something about the pattern being broken.

"Better luck next time, man." Dan clasped my shoulder. "Just keep at it though, eh? We're breaking ground as it is, this early on."

I nodded, even though I didn't entirely agree. "Alfred was right. There's enough here to buy all of us something from the Square. How about we all celebrate not dying today?"

As the mood brightened around me, I looked up over the dam where the river met the sky. The distant shape of a ferry could now be seen, approaching swiftly.

* * *

**Leigh Davison | District 5 | 17**

* * *

Not for the first time, Ma had set the table for three.

Her back is to me as I wrench open the cabinet for a fourth plate. She's unraveling a ball of twine to package the day's deliveries, and she appears not to notice.

I manage to scrape half of the contents from my own plate onto the fourth before pa lumbers up from the cellar. Between two large hands he balances three fresh, glistening cuts of beef. These have been carefully separated from a small pile of last week's scraps.

"Four pickups today," he announces. "Hurry and wrap 'em up now, so we can open right after the ceremony."

Pa insists on keeping Davison Family Butcher open on Reaping Day. He maintains it's the best day for sales. From what I've seen, he's not wrong. We've always managed to serve a hoard of relief-stricken mothers and fathers before the day's end.

"So!" Pa roars. He leaves Ma to wrap and settles heavily in his chair. "Any chance you'll be volunteering this year?"

"No," I say flatly. He starts eating. I don't.

"Could've fooled me," he chuckles. "You'll tear right through that punching bag of yours before long." He suddenly raps my knuckles with the back of his fork. "Haven't I always said? These are fightin' hands, sweetheart."

Pa says you can read a man by his hands. We've all three got ruddy hands—Ma, Pa, and I. Something about my scabbed-over knuckles and power plant burns causes Pa to swell with pride and reminisce on his own boyhood fistfights. He, like me, grew up fighting. Neither is Ma above dishing out a reprimand with an open palm instead of a lecture. It's kind of fitting that the long hours of handling meat always stain our hands red.

A thump and a cry echoed from the stairwell. I stood so fast my chair nearly toppled backwards. Neither Ma nor Pa spared a glance.

I leapt from the kitchen to find my younger brother, limp on the floor and struggling to pull himself up on the banister.

"Here, let me—" I reach for his hands to pull him into a standing position. The gesture is a familiar one. I've done this rescue several times before.

Stairs, bullies, our own parents—Artie has too many enemies he shouldn't. And they wouldn't dare lift a finger against him if I had anything to say about it.

I give him a chance to smooth over his wrinkles before my hands clumsily form the words, _Are you okay? How many stairs?_

He signs back far more elegantly. His hands are small, pale, and tense. They're prone to shake, but it doesn't show when he signs. _Just four. I'm fine._

_Glasses?_ I ask.

_They're fine too._ I sigh with relief. I had saved up at the power plant for over a year to afford those.

_Breakfast is ready,_ I sign. He nods, but his hands are already trembling again.

Ma and Pa are engaged in conversation when we return. She leans her hip against the counter and pointedly avoid Artie's gaze when we enter. They never bothered to learn how to communicate with him. They weren't the ones who spent hours at the district library pouring over tutorials or practicing signs by lamplight after hours. They don't see how Artie's proficiency has surpassed even mine or how confident he is when he communicates.

"—and when are we going to stop paying that private tutor?" Ma was asking. "I've been saying for years now it's an unnecessary expense."

"When our son can be of some use," Pa replies with his mouth full. He swallows thickly. "I don't care for it either, but you know Artur's dead weight. He should learn to earn his keep."

"A world of good those lessons are doing him then. More than five years we've had this tutor and he doesn't speak, can't understand a damned word we say, brings home awful grades every week…if you ask me, he's too slow to be of any use, and nothing we do will change that."

Bull. Artie was a genius. Apparently, I was the only one who had put any effort into understanding him.

Artie's hands are raised, but hesitant, like a sentence best left unsaid about to die on your tongue. After some thought, they're set in motion. _I'm not hungry today._

I nod and don't bother to hide my anger toward our parents. He understands.

It was recently that he discovered that our parents had seriously considered disowning him. I've known for longer. I've fought tooth and nail against the notion ever since, often with furious shouting matches that he'd never been able to hear. I always talk them down in the end, but it's moments like these that remind me how fixed in their minds the notion remains. They talk about Artie like this all the time, right in his face, like he's not even in the room. They assume they can talk freely without him being the wiser. But what they don't know is that, not long after I got him his glasses, Artie developed a keen proficiency for reading lips.

The thing is, they probably wouldn't care either way.

* * *

The mid-morning sun is hot on our backs as we make our way through the marketplace. All of the shopfront windows are dark, but the street is bustling. The chatter in the air is uncertain, dreading. Fists everywhere are clenched. Knuckles turn white in the sunlight. I walk just a step behind Artie, casting a shadow over his small frame.

Like a slow-moving current, the crowd approaches the district university. The quad is spacious and fenced in, perfect for holding all of District Five's children against their will while their parents struggle against the iron gates. Artie's hands start to tremble again. Two years ago was his first reaping, and the years to follow haven't been any easier on him.

The marketplace opens up into the public square. We pass by our school, and my eyes narrow suspiciously down its back alleyway. That was where Artie had been ambushed last year. Seeing him pinned against the wall by three boys three years older and nearly twice his size—it was the most anger I've ever known at once. I don't remember much what had happened beyond the intensity of my emotions, but I do know I took on all three. One I knocked unconscious and left in the alleyway for the rest of the evening. Their ringleader's nose was never quite the same.

No one jumped out at us. It was a laughable notion anyway, though part of me had hoped for an excuse to hit something. I settle for glaring at everyone who dared look our way.

My glare softens for one person: a twelve-year-old named Jule. Artie's only friend, she's seen her own share of bullies because of her family's economic status. Usually, she'll wave and sign a rudimentary greeting. Today, it's clear her mind is somewhere distant.

_It's Jule's first reaping,_ Artie informs me. _Her whole family's nervous._

_I know_, I reply. _Her mother came by yesterday._ With more money than I knew she could usually afford. Enough to buy one of our nicer cuts, out of hope that her children would survive another year.

I also knew for certain that Pa intended that pile of old scraps he brought up from the basement for her. That's his philosophy when it comes to poverty: "They'd better be grateful for anything they get." The idea made sense when I was younger—leave expensive tastes to expensive people. But years of seeing Artie go through the same treatment at Pa's hands showed me how ugly a sentiment it is.

A steady stream of children surrounds us, but we're not even half of those in attendance. Not yet. In the distance I hear the horn of the ferry boat and the distant squeal of a braking train. I steer Artie in front of me to file into one of the many lines forming at the gate.

In the line beside us is an unwelcome, familiar face—my classmate Josep Petro. He turns away a beat too quickly. His nose is still horribly misshapen from our encounter in the alleyway, and I smile despite myself.

_Serves him right._

For a second, I picture him getting reaped. Could I wish that on a person? What if _Artie_ got reaped? I wonder. And I know my contingency plan: threaten to make Josep Petro's life a living hell unless he volunteered in his place. That I could accept.

And there stands the main building of the university: stone-cold and casting all beneath it in shadow.

* * *

**Mike Quail | District 5 | 16**

* * *

We approach the university. It's as dull and archaic as I remember.

I toured there with my class this year and was since encouraged to apply. My grades were good enough, after all. Alfred certainly took to the idea, pouring over his studies with a fervor that bewildered our entire year. They never understood his ardor, which tended to make him more bristly than usual.

I can't say I understand either. I get his passion—I've devoted sleepless nights to completing my own prototypes. But for university? Sterile classrooms, halfhearted teachers, and mail slots stuffed full of recycled Capitol blueprints? People who went in emerged as project managers and factory overseers. It was a good living. Goodness knows Alfred wanted to get out of the dam shadow before long. But I don't want to spend my life reading someone else's blueprints. I'd rather make my own.

You know, if I make it that far.

It had been easy, prematurely celebrating our survival safe on a boat several miles downstream. We'd joked about the escorts and theorized that they were actually highly realistic animatronics (no real Capitolite would deign to visit the districts, right?—and how else could they look so plastic?) We'd debated whether being considered old enough to kill someone meant that you should be old enough to drink, and wondered, more importantly, if that seemed like a valid case to make to the local bartender. Now all that lighthearted banter seems a far-off memory.

Being here, cast in shadow along with all these people—well, you're that much more aware that two of them will be getting a death sentence. And the most I can do is hope that it's not me, or my family. I have two sisters; one is reaping age. And sure, we have our disagreements. They couldn't care less about robotics or any of my other interests, so we don't spend much time with one another. But seeing one of them up on that stage would still cripple me.

The silence had begun to feel like a hundred-pound weight by the time our escort ascended the stage. She's new this year, and I'm shocked by what I think is her age (the Capitol embellishments make it difficult to tell for sure). If she were born in the districts, she might have just barely escaped the reapings herself.

She's also—glowing? Yes, I realized as she stepped into a darker patch of shadow. Her skin was indeed giving off a faint, yellow radiance.

"Quite the phosphorescent escort we have this year," Maurice remarked. The corners of Dan's mouth twitched.

"I swear, if you're gonna start calling her the _phosphorescort…_"

"That can't be good for the skin," Alfred said with a frown. "Luminous chemicals are toxic to most organisms."

"Robot confirmed." I whispered.

We doubled over in silent laughter until a peacekeeper glared threateningly in our direction. The brief respite to the tension had ended.

Looking back, I'm grateful there were at least some pleasant memories to hold onto from today. The last was the sigh of relief that escaped me, when the escort selected from the female bowl and announced the name of a tribute that wasn't my sister.

* * *

**Leigh Davison | District 5 | 17**

* * *

It's me. It's me and I'm _not_ happy and I make sure everyone knows it.

I don't go quietly. I growl at the crowd of seventeen-year-olds around me. They scatter like flies. One tries to extend a sympathetic hand. I slap it away. A peacekeeper locates me and attempts to grab my shoulder. I barrel right through him, knocking him out of the way with my elbow.

He shouts at me. I turn right back around and scream through clenched teeth. Then I storm up to the platform, each stomp echoing too-loudly across the quad.

From that moment on, I don't pick up any details. I'm vaguely aware of shoving aside the Capitol escort as she approaches. I see my skinny, blank-faced district partner join me onstage. When we shake hands, I squeeze so hard I hear something crack. And that's all I notice. Every other noise is muffled by the roar in my ears. Everything I see is tinted with shades of red.

The walk to the Justice Building seems to take the rest of the morning. The quad may as well be miles long, at the rate that the rest of the crowd shuffles out of our way—even with the peacekeeper duo that towers over us, everything's so sluggish I want to scream. Meanwhile our escort clutches us both by the elbows and keeps making these distressed little noises. It's clear that neither the silent treatment from me, nor the spacey silence of the other kid, are at all to her liking. Each "_Really,_ now—you can't ignore me forever!" and "Say _something_ at least!" is like a mosquito making another pass around my ear. I'd swat her myself if I weren't too concerned with finding Artie in the crowd. As slowly as we moved, I couldn't find him.

I'd get my three minutes, then. It's a lifetime too short.

Who else would come to see me for a last three minutes? My parents, definitely. Apart from them and Artie, I can't picture anyone else coming to cry at my feet. I don't really have friends my own age. No one at school was worth the time.

Sure enough, after we're paraded across the square, marched up the marble steps of the Justice Building, and shoved into waiting rooms across the hall from one another, Ma and Pa are already there. They sit comfortably on plush furniture, chatting casually. It looks like they've been here a while.

Ma rises when she sees me, coming up to only my chin at her full height. "We came as soon as we heard."

"We wouldn't miss this for anything," Pa booms. His smile's as wide as I've ever seen it as he comes in for a hug. "Our girl's gonna do us proud."

"I thought you'd be more…upset," I mumble into his shoulder. A confusing jumble of emotions overshadows my anger. It'd be dangerous to unpack here and now.

"I would be," Pa replies, pulling away, "if you didn't stand a fighting chance out there. But you're a winner, Leigh. You'll win or fight 'til your last breath. I'm betting right now I'll see you home before the month is out."

"And imagine if you did come back!" Ma's eyes are sparkling. "We'd live like kings in the Victor's Village! An official endorsement from a victor would do wonders for our business," she added with a wink.

I don't know what to think. It's like a betrayal and an encouragement mixed together into one package. I don't know if it's from them or somewhere else entirely that I pull together the strength to say stoically, "I _will _come back."

"That's my girl!" Pa punches into his palm. "Give 'em hell, Leigh."

"Well," said Ma, "I'm just glad it was you up there and not Artur I mean…" She laughs—actually _laughs_. "…can you imagine the embarrassment?"

"And see, here's the thing." My temper climbs again, and my voice rises to match. "I'm coming back, and if I hear that you've _ever_ mistreated Artie while I'm gone, even _once_, the last thing you'll be getting from me is an endorsement."

Ma sputters, and Pa turns red as he speaks. "Now Leigh, your mother was just—"

"Get out!" I yell. "_Now!_"

Ma is fuming. Pa's brows are furrowed, his fists tight. But without another word, thankfully, they shuffle out. When I hear the last of their footsteps in the hallway, I turn around, punch the wall, and scream out the loudest, foulest expletive I can manage.

The catharsis lasts less than a second, but it's the best damn second I've had all day.

The minutes pass; worry seizes me. What if he didn't make it in time? What if Ma and Pa had seen him on the way out and dragged him home already, or some lowlife like Josep Petro had taken advantage of my absence? I'm about to kick down the door and find him myself when it inches open. Artie enters to find me sitting on the arm of the couch, massaging my bruised knuckles. His eyes are glassy. Under his arm is a small, stuffed duck we played with together as children.

_I brought it just in case,_ he signs. It isn't as smooth or controlled as usual.

I retrieve the duck and stuff it into my front pocket. It's a tight fit, and its head sticks out, but I didn't care. _It's perfect._ I tell him. And then, _I'm coming back. Don't worry._

_I am worried._

_I'm more worried about you,_ I sign, letting him read the genuine fear on my face.

_But you could die. I'll be fine._

I don't believe him. I've always been there to block the target on his back, but now? _Listen to me. Stay out of trouble. Don't trust anyone who can't understand you. Find a safe place. Wait for me._

Artie looks down. _I believe in you, Leigh. But…I can't wait for you forever._ My breath catches.

_And maybe,_ he adds, _I'll finally be able to teach Ma and Pa sign language._

I pull him into a fierce hug. He finally breaks and sobs against me, but I hold on. Oh, Artie. Too brave for his own good, and too kind for the world around him.

He wouldn't last without me. I had to return, for his sake.

* * *

**Mike Quail | District 5 | 16**

* * *

You know what I'd never realized before? How many different ways there are to kill someone.

Sure, there's the conventional. Stabbing. Bludgeoning. Strangulation. But when murder is turned into a game, conventional doesn't always cut it. You could find a source of salt water—highly conductive—and rig up an electrocution device. You could disguise something poisonous to look edible and be on your merry way before the cannon sounds. With the right lens, you could remotely start a brush fire that could quickly spiral out of control…

There was a crack that I _felt_ that brought me back down to earth. And I looked up to see that my hand was locked in the death grip of a girl who stood as tall as I was. She had some serious muscle on her and was wearing the fiercest glare I had seen directed at _anyone_, let alone me.

That was the moment I became acutely aware of my own mortality.

I now paced around the waiting room in the Justice building, wondering if the question I should have been asking was not _How can one die? _but _How will _I _die?_

And my district partner…she wasn't even a career but holy _crud_ she was the scariest-looking girl I had ever seen. Good thing she was on my side, right? _Right?_ I mean, people didn't usually kill their own district partners…though after last year's games, I was second guessing even this common decency.

Forget a proper burial; this girl could pound me straight into the earth beneath my feet.

Mom, Dad, Ana, and Gabi were the first to visit me. It's the most somber and silent I've ever seen the four of them at once. At first, mom tried to make me promise her I'll come back. But then she sensed my dejection and realized there's no sense in making a promise that I don't have much chance of keeping.

"I guess I wanted some false hope," she whispered in my ear as we embraced.

I then turned to Dad. "So…any chance of finishing that robotic drain cleaner now?" It had been a project we had been tinkering on together in the garage for some time, but Dad shook his head.

"Don't think I could bring myself to."

Ana and Gabi don't have much to say for their own part. To be fair, we never really did. The two of them mainly confided in each other over the years, never wanting to participate in any of my own interests. But we hardly resented each other for it. And now they had to watch me die.

Who would have the words?

I watched my family leave and wished for more time. Almost immediately afterward, my three friends stumbled into the room to replace them.

"Bro," Dan said as soon as we locked eyes, and I was shocked by how unshakably determined his expression was. "You alright?"

I was about to reply _of course not_ when Maurice added, "Walking up there, it's like you shut down or something. Kinda scary. I don't know if you heard what people were saying…"

I grimaced. I had spaced out as soon as my name was called, and I should have known that would strike some people as odd. I had tried to put the whispers out of my mind at the time, but I remembered more colorful murmurs, _"Isn't he one of those nerds?" _… _"Looks as dead as one of those robots he works with." … "Is he mentally unstable or something?"_

"Whatever went down up there…it can't again," Alfred ordered. "You'll need to keep your head on straight, whatever happens…"

"…because you've got this," Dan said firmly.

"N-no, no, I don't!" I protested. "Look at me, I'm not…not athletic, not strong…"

"No," said Dan, "but you're stupid smart."

"Strong wins fights," said Alfred, "but smart wins games."

That struck a chord, more than anything my family could have said to me.

_You could find a source of salt water and rig up an electrocution device. You could disguise something poisonous to look edible. With the right lens, you could remotely start a brush fire…_

Something clever. I had to plan something clever, something _big_, that no one would expect. And if that's all it took to turn myself into a contender, well, maybe I stood a chance after all.

* * *

**Authors Note:**

* * *

**And...we're off to the races!**

**Or reapings, as it were. **

**So now we have our District 5 tributes! A bit of an unconventional starting point, I know, but I don't really care about getting the districts in order as long as I can write both tributes into the same chapter. That'll probably dictate the order in which I write these reapings.**

**I've copied and pasted the list of current tributes on my profile, and I do intend to make some sort of infographic with faceclaims later on (for visual purposes, since working physical descriptions into 1st person writing can be awkward). There are plenty of open spots (*wiggles eyebrows at new readers*), and though I'd love to see the characters y'all come up with, I'm not in too much of a rush. I kinda like being able to tackle this at a leisurely pace. I'm trying for between 200-500 words per day. It'll largely depend on when the busy patches are. **

**A special thank you to WhymsicalBell for Mike and IciclePower33 for Leigh, two amazing tributes who seemed to write themselves at times. Which may explain why this chapter ended up as long as it did. I don't know if this will be the standard length for my chapters in the future, but in this case it seemed right. So I hope I wrote them right by you as well. :)**

**Not much left to be said except keep the reviews coming! I believe it's conventional to also ask some sort of question at the end of a chapter. So in case you want something to guide your review-writing process: Were you able to get a pretty good picture of District 5 from the descriptions? What are some of your District 5 Headcanons? And how about the tributes? What did you like about them? Do either stand out?**

**Cheers,**

**Grey**


	5. D10: The Brawler and the Medic

**Ross Hickey | District 10 | 18**

* * *

_The Day Before the Reaping_

Through the dusty windows of Ash's truck, we could see evidence of yesterday's storm all around us.

The twister had left behind a trail big enough to drive through. Whole reams of tall grass, which usually shone gold in the sunrise this early in the morning, lay limp and dirt-spattered in front of a backdrop of grey-green clouds. Wooden flotsam stuck out at odd angles in the fields. I tried not to think about those in the outlying ranches who had likely lost their homes.

As we crossed the main road, Ash's kids cried out and pointed at a power line whose supports had collapsed like dominos. The cable had tangled itself uselessly between them.

Ash spared it a glance and a cluck of the tongue before turning her eyes back toward the main road. "Looks like power's out for a while, kiddos. Don't expect the government to get on top of _that_ one anytime soon."

The woman had no patience for dealings with the Capitol. It had taken her years to plead her case for simply owning this truck. And even now she had to keep a careful record of her driving and present bi-weekly for a thorough inspection of the mileage and her careful ration of gas.

Mr. Nye _hmm_ed nervously from the passenger seat. "They'd better. That there's a fire hazard."

"They'll delay it as long as the ground's moist enough," Ash said grimly. "Just you watch—"

"_Maaama!"_ came a cry from my left. It was Ewan, Ash's second youngest. While Ash herself and Mr. Nye sat in the front of her truck, the four of her children had to squeeze into the back seat, with me squished in between them. The oldest, Del and Dan, squabbled for a better view out the window to our right. Ewan was getting restless to my left. Pepper was asleep on my lap.

"_Maaama!_" Ewan cried again. Pepper stirred. "Where are we going?"

"We're goin' to go play a little game," Ash announced. "It's called 'Find Mr. Nye's missing horse.'"

Merriman Nye was the caretaker of the stables that had been closest to the path of the storm. By a proper miracle, his farmhouse had suffered very little damage. But he'd had to cut free all his horses before the twister hit, so they wouldn't be trapped if things took a turn for the worse.

Since the storm subsided, most of the horses had returned of their own accord. He'd found two or three lifeless bodies. Only one of his horses had not been within the five-mile radius of his search—one of his most powerful stallions, that he'd purchased only recently from a fellow rancher who'd been foreclosed. Hoping that this stallion was simply too new to have learned his way back to the farm yet, he'd then called on Ash for her truck and her veterinarian services.

After all, tomorrow was reaping day, and Mr. Nye had volunteered once again to take charge of transportation to the district centre (Year after year, the Capitol refused to take on the endeavor themselves—District 10 was huge but sparsely populated on the fringes, and they claimed it would be a waste of resources). With as many horses that had died or been injured in the storm, Mr. Nye needed every one of his remaining horses pulling wagons the next morning.

We swerved to a stop in front of an expansive, wooded pond. "I've caught a stray or two around here back in the day," Ash reasoned. "Everyone out! Ten minutes—then we move on."

Both back doors opened with explosive force. The boys leaped out, hollering, with four-year-old Pepper toddling sleepily behind.

Not one to shirk a job, I immediately set out to cover as much ground as possible. This proved difficult as the kids attempted to rope me into a game of "find everything _but _Mr. Nye's missing horse." Dan tried to fish for the remains of a tire swing. Ewan ran in circles around me with a tattered kite. Del managed to pry a weather vane from a tree trunk. He brandished it like a weapon in my direction. "Think I could survive the Hunger Games with this?"

Del could truly make light of anything. I smiled through my unease. "You're not even eligible, bucko. Wait a year and then you can worry about that."

Pepper, meanwhile, was busy cleaning the bank of its wildflowers. She darted back and forth between me and the water's edge, pressing flowers in my hand when she had plucked too many to carry. Before long, I had amassed a bouquet.

Ash and I crossed paths, and I heard her chuckle. "You really ought to have friends your own age, Roswell."

I tell her what I always do: "Not likely."

It was nearing seven years ago, the day Ashwin Artz had adopted me as her apprentice, and she never relented in reminding me her initial reservations with taking me on. Still, she knew full well that I wouldn't trade this life for anything, not even the prospect of a stable friendship with my own peers.

To accomplish that would require roots. I'd have to stay on the family pig farm, working long hours in the same place every day at a job I abhorred. Mornings I'd attend the closest we'd ever get to a school out in the fringes—a community-run operation that crammed around twenty kids into a tiny cabin splitting the distance between the neighboring farms, where parents took turns teaching the day's lesson.

My life changed forever when Ash barreled up the drive to the family farm in her dusty, old truck. She came to check up on a sick sow; the sow was pregnant, so we couldn't risk losing the investment. Ash got straight to work, and I watched her with fascination, forgetting my own duties for the day, as this booming, larger-than-life woman handled her patient with utmost gentleness. With the barest essentials of medical equipment, she checked the animal's vitals, soothed it while she worked, and mixed a few quick remedies that she assured would take effect within the week.

I was enamored: the care she put into her work, the way she won the animals' unquestioning trust, and most of all, the prospect of prolonging a life instead of snuffing it out. Before the end of the day, my mind was made up. I had begged Ash to take me with her. At first, she had merely laughed. "Your folks would miss you," she'd say, and continue her work.

But I didn't let up. Realizing how serious I was but still reluctant to pry me from my home, she had offered to correspond with me instead. It was the best I was going to get, so I'd accepted. In the weeks that followed, I'd write letters bursting with questions about medicine and animal care. She'd answer them all and would throw in the details from some of her specific jobs for good measure.

Things changed sooner than expected. Ash became pregnant with twins and knew she'd need an extra hand or two to rely on anyway. She'd relented, and after some careful convincing, my parents did too. She had come round again a month later to pick me up for my first job, and by that time, I had dropped out of school, finished packing my bags a week early, and spent most of my free time staring at the driveway.

Life with Ash was never dull. As the most called-upon—and with her truck, the most mobile—veterinarian in District 10, we'd taken jobs in the farthest reaches of the district. Some required hours of driving. Some required extended stays and nights spent sleeping in the truck bed. There were complications in this line of work. There'd be weeks on end where we'd have to work overtime thanks to waves of disease. There'd be entire nights spent stranded on the side of the road because the Capitol had been shorthanded on gas that week. But despite the rough patches, it was the life I had always dreamed for myself.

She had even started paying me. It wasn't much because—she had cheerfully remarked—she knew I'd stay on no matter the salary. But every penny I earn I've been saving to go to medical school myself. I'd work for Ash forever if I could, but if I want to be a recognized vet myself someday, I'd have to work toward that goal, and not just for someone else for the rest of my life.

But until then, I'd prolong every second I could.

We were interrupted by a delighted cry. Seconds later, Mr. Nye appeared around the bend to wave us over. He had found the lost stallion lying on his side under a thick cluster of shrubs.

We approached, and Ash immediately slowed, taking care not to make any sudden movements in case the horse got skittish and send a kick in her direction. Though, if anyone could survive a kick to the head it would be she: the woman was made of iron. She listened to the animal's breathing for a while, and then she moved on to examine the legs.

"Is he good to make the trip back?" I asked. "If someone were to ride him to the stables…"

I must have sounded too eager; Ash barked a laugh. "Young man, you're even worse a horse girl than Pepper." I felt my cheeks flush. "Besides, our fella here pulled a muscle tryin' to outrun that storm. A splint and one more day's rest should do the trick, and he'll be fine in the bed of my truck 'slong as we take it slow."

I nodded and made to fetch the splint from the truck. Ash called out after me, "'Course, we'd need someone back there to keep an eye on him."

I'd ridden horses before, though rarely. There was nothing like it: the silence save the roar of the wind and the cadence of the hoofbeats, the blur of the landscape on all sides, feeling the quickened heartbeat of the animal beneath. The feeling that you could just keep running forever and leave everything—oppressive crowds, widespread destitution, the Capitol itself—behind.

I guess Ash was right: I did have a bit of cowboy in me.

And riding in the bed of her truck while soothing an injured stallion wasn't quite the same as riding the animal himself. But with the breeze in my face and the jostle of each bump in the road, it came almost close enough.

* * *

**Georgie Lamrock | District 10 | 14**

* * *

_The Morning of the Reaping_

Atop a ladder perched precariously against the Justice Building, I could see evidence of the storm all around me.

It had been more than a day now and _still _everything was coated in the dust that had been swept up by the high winds. You couldn't take a breath without inhaling the stuff. The homes and shops below were in various states of disrepair, the shattered windows and tattered awnings most visible. A small cluster of children from my orphanage roamed the streets picking up the last stray bits of glass. Even the Justice Building had suffered damage. Chunks of the ornate, wooden lodge had been swept away or else smashed off by other debris.

It was also the second day since the power line collapsed, and clearly, nothing had been done about that. Worse still, it was _hot_—the kind of day that left sweat stains in droves and stuck your shoes to the pavement if you stayed in one place too long. We didn't have much in the way of AC, even in the central part of town. But we'd had fans that we'd kill to have up and running right now. We'd also had plenty of freezers and cold storage that kept meat for future processing. So between the heat, the worsening stench of rotting meat, and maybe also the fact that it was Reaping Day, no one was in much of a good mood.

"_Georgie!_"

And that included my older sister.

She reached the ladder just as I finished hanging a banner across the Justice Building. that read _Happy Hunger Games!_ in obnoxious fuchsia lettering. It didn't cover up all the damage, but it would do for the cameras, I guess. Satisfied, I looked down to get a good read on her expression.

Concern. Great.

For most, one doting mother figure was enough and, dare I say, needed. I had been blessed with two—it was like nature was trying to make amends for offing my biological parents so early. The first was Sue Gibbons, overworked orphanage supervisor and supermom to the couple dozen orphaned children in town. She had long since won my wholehearted admiration. On the other end of the spectrum was Madeline, who, for her part, really did care. But I'd have a lot more respect for her if she'd done something to earn it.

"You should really have someone to spot you." Madeline took a hold of the rail to illustrate her point.

I rolled my eyes. "Why are you here so early? You're not the one being punished."

Community service projects were Sue's preferred means of dealing with misbehaving orphans. She tried to avoid involvement with Peacekeepers whenever possible, but this week they insisted on hijacking the extra manual labor for the post-storm cleanup.

Before Madeline could say anything more, I scrambled down the ladder and leaped to the ground from the fifth rung. She gave a noticeable flinch and didn't have long to look unamused before taking in my appearance. I was—let's say—less than presentable for the day's festivities. And it wasn't long before her expression gave way to dumb shock.

"I'm guessing you're not just gawking at the paint," I deadpanned, sure there were a few globs of it in my hair after a touch-up job.

But no. She was probably talking about my black eye, purple knuckles, split lip, and bloody knees and elbows.

Madeline wrung her hands. "Is there anything I can do?"

Oh, she knew. She knew _full well._

"Yeah, come to think of it." I stroked my chin in mock consideration. "Maybe—_stop dating the punk who tries to beat me up every day._"

She at least had the decency to look guilty. But wherever an impressionable, completely dependent female such as Madeline went, a doting boyfriend was sure to follow. And sure enough, I caught sight of a lanky figure leaning against the iron gate, noticeably not doing any work. His arms were still shiny with bruises—not one of my worst bouts—except those same arms had taken my head and slammed it against a bannister yesterday, and I could still feel the lump. His hat cast a shadow over his eyes, but I could recognize that dumb smirk from the other side of a stampede.

Jock Elliot. Fellow orphan, part-time general store clerk, full-time personal bully to one Georgie Lamrock.

There was a point in time where his constant torment got so bad, not even pommeling him or his various fellow offenders could put me back in a good mood. It was at that time that Madeline came up with an absolutely _brilliant_ plan: flirt outrageously until he fell for her and would then somehow leave me alone.

Which, okay, was actually kind of sweet of her. Dumb, but sweet. But let's swing back around to dumb. What ended up happening? Exactly what you'd expect. She ended up falling for _him_. And now, not only is he _still _undeterred from picking fights with me, but she actually excuses him for it. It's the age-old fairytale romance. He's an egotistical bully who rallies all his goons to terrorize a small child just minding her own business, and she's an airhead.

I didn't think I could take another "Oh, he's not so bad once you get to know him," speech. Not today. "Just go," I told her. "Pretty boy doesn't like to be kept waiting for the likes of me."

After a second's hesitation and a retort that visibly died on her lips, she turned tail and did just that.

I, meanwhile, got back to work. Not that I much wanted to play any part in tidying up the city so that two children could be sacrificed on live television. Unfortunately, I didn't have much of a say as to whether or not I continued the penance for my most recent brawl.

At least the Peacekeepers had let up some. Earlier in the morning, it was a wonder we weren't cooled off given how much they were breathing down our necks. Now, however, they had other concerns. Namely, our rather…temperamental escort.

"…may have had low expectations, but this is an absolute _insult._ You're telling me _this_ is what's going to show up on television today? And someone _please _do something about that smell; I can't even think straight."

Ah. There he was.

I saw two more of my, shall we say, _sparring partners_ crouched behind the stage, pretending to tighten the bolt connecting two of the risers. The looks on their faces informed me this was not a conversation I wanted to miss.

"Move it," I hissed, skidding into the gravel beside them. They threw me ugly looks but gave me some room. We may have spent most of our alone time trying to knock the lights out of each other's eyes. But for whatever reason—maybe some unofficial bully code that laid the law of conduct toward small girls who could knock you senseless—they held some measure of respect for me.

"And what do you mean, no power?" Luka Marxim wailed. The risers shook with his little tantrum as he stormed up the steps to the stage. A set of quieter, more frantic footsteps followed.

"We do have an auxiliary generator," the mayor explained. "But it'll be just enough for the cameras and one mic and speaker set. All our other systems were knocked out by the storm."

Her voice strained with the air of someone who had been fighting to keep patient for just a touch too long. She deserved a healthy amount of credit for trying.

"So no teleprompter? No video feed?" The mayor took a breath to speak, but he cut her off. "No, of course not. You're all useless. The show must go on, and if this is to be done right, I'm going to have to do this all myself. Did I or did I not, after all, devote four years of my life to film school to prepare for this very eventuality?"

Luka prattled on, but I lost focus after taking a hard blow to the shoulder. I tumbled into the dirt while my assailants darted away in fits of laughter. So much for our temporary truce.

I might have earned their respect. But that didn't mean they would ever stop looking for a reason to revoke it.

* * *

**Ross Hickey | District 10 | 18**

* * *

My parents were waiting in the pastures outside the city when I disembarked the wagon. They wore plain, neat clothes, and clasped their hands identically in the front. While the Artz family had personality in spades, one couldn't help but guess that the Hickeys starved for it.

Ash steered me toward them with a firm grip on my shoulder. "They're your folks and it's your last reapin'," she insisted. "You know where to find us later."

So, hands in my pockets, I ambled up to meet them. Mom welcomed me in with a polite, if restrained, hug. My visits home were becoming further and further spread apart, and it showed.

"We just wanted to congratulate you on your last Reaping," Mom said to me.

"That seems a bit premature," was all I could think of in reply. I was mildly surprised; neither of my folks was one to tempt fate.

Dad shrugged it off. "The odds are in your favor. I can't see any reason why we shouldn't be a little premature."

"How's…?" Mom cut herself off. "You know, you can tell us later. Why don't you spend the evening with us? There's space on our wagon for one more, and we can afford to be a bit lavish with dinner tonight; don't you think, Marshall?" Dad nodded his agreement.

"That's awful nice…" I rubbed the back of my neck. "I'd have to double check the schedule for the next few days, though. I may be needed."

"Of course," said Mom. "All the same, we'd love for you to join us."

We said our goodbyes, and that was that. There wasn't much point in catching up beyond that, despite the fact that it had been weeks since I saw them last. It was always the same story for them—there wasn't much variety to working day after day on the pig farm. And I knew any mention of Ash's latest developments in medicine would lead to confused stares and an uncomfortable silence.

As hard as they tried to understand my passion, their inability to understand always won out over their efforts to relate. And it wasn't as if they didn't understand the necessity in times of disease. It wasn't so much the idea of unfamiliar chemical treatments either, even though they were the sort who were wary about what went into their livestock's diet. No, their struggle was philosophical. It began and ended with a question that, after six years, I had not been able to answer myself.

Why prolong a life that was already marked for consumption?

The question was like a sinkhole that threatened to bring about the collapse to everything I had worked for, and my search for an answer, for some way to plug it up, had come up empty. No flimsy excuse I could think up was enough; it demanded to be satisfied. I didn't want to acknowledge it. The only thing I could do was run from it.

And why shouldn't I? I enjoyed healing, no matter the implications. And I shouldn't have to be reminded, every time I helped an injured calf back onto its feet or scratched a sow behind her ears, that every measure I took to keep them from dying was meaningless in the long run.

_No._ I banished all questions of meaning from my thoughts. I wouldn't—couldn't address them now.

I awkwardly made my way through the crowd to the eighteen-year-old section, knocking elbows, drawing nervous glances, mumbling apologies, not recognizing anyone. I was sure some of my former neighbors were about, but would I recognize them after six years? Likely no. Ash was right about me not having friends my age; whether I needed them was another matter.

Something within my surroundings triggered a memory of the family pigpen on the morning of a slaughter. Nervous jittering. Instincts taking over. All those eligible for the day's kill packing into a single mob.

A shudder passed over me. There was a reason I had run away from it all. More than ever now, I wished for my host family. Ash herself, the calming presence of her husband and the endless affection of her children. They had made a home for me and grounded me to earth. More than that, they distracted me from the darker thoughts. Thoughts of isolation and inevitability.

I stood tall and straight pressed in on all sides by my peers, who talked over me in hushed, nervous tones.

In an hour, most of them would celebrate evading death for another year. But what was another year, in the end? They had expiration dates too. Every one of them.

* * *

**Georgie Lamrock | District 10 | 14**

* * *

We labored until the square became too crowded to accommodate any more repair work. By that time, the generator had been hooked up and the cameras rolling, and we'd been ushered in with the rest of the children without being given any time to freshen up. Now crammed in with others in my age group, I craned my neck, trying to see, over a large group of taller heads, the emergence of our victors.

Some twenty-odd years ago, District 10 hit a legendary winning streak, producing three victors in the span of four years. But I guess the Capitol decided it was a bit too much of an ego boost for an outer district. So, realizing that all of these victors had been involved in competitive bullfighting or bull-riding, they went after our rodeos.

I'd only heard about them in passing: lively, district-wide, mostly non-lethal tournaments accompanied by friendly wagers, nightly parties, and whatever alcohol could be scraped up for the festivities. I think I'd have enjoyed them myself, had the Capitol officials not dug up all the unsavory footage it could find and aired it all on the 81st Victory Tour. Somehow, this unsettled the Capitol citizens, who collectively cried animal cruelty and demanded we put an end to it. Rich, isn't it? They're happy to watch two dozen children murder each other every year but don't have the stomach for a bit of bull wrestling? What about the mutts they're so fond of? And where do they think their meat comes from? Give me a friggin' break.

But it worked. We hadn't had a victor since.

Only one of the victors who ascended the stage was female: Veera Stough, who had strong-armed her way to victory in the 80th Games. She was a turret of a woman with leathery skin, close-cropped hair, a body mass of 200-some pounds, and the voice of someone who had swallowed a pack of cigarettes. She was one of my heroes. Growing up, there had been scarce material of girls from our district kicking ass, so for me the tapes of the 80th were game-changing. I had watched the footage of her games with ardor, devoting long hours to emulating her fighting style.

I also learned that she had been the heavyweight boxing champion for her school the year before her games. This inspired me, at age eight, to start my own boxing tournament in the orphanage basement.

We'd made a huge thing of it, my girlfriends and I. They hadn't been so keen on the fighting, but they did help design the flyers and come up with a catchy slogan: _The Midnight Fight: Come Box in Your Socks._ Pamphlets exchanged hands in secret throughout the day. Excited whispers drew Sue's suspicion, but she said nothing of it. By midnight, the stage was set. A ring had been cleared in the basement using all of the available furniture. Flashlights hung from the ceiling to emulate spotlights. We'd plastered an empty bracket on the wall and began to fill it with names as our contestants arrived: mostly preteen boys with an ego to boost, not to mention plenty of pent-up aggression.

And I'd wiped the smiles off of all their faces. With hours of practice on my side, it was no wonder I was killing the bracket before Sue discovered us, arriving just in time to see me knock a twelve-year-old Jock Elliot out cold.

Sore losers, all of them. Especially Elliot. They'd devoted their sad lives to tormenting me ever since. And I'd always been more than happy to fight them off my back. But there are easier ways to ask a girl for a rematch. Easier, less emotionally scarring ways—not that I'd ever admit it. Because no matter how many times I'd remind myself that it takes a special sort of deadbeat to provoke a fourteen-year-old girl to not be seen as weak, some of their attacks got personal.

Too personal.

A "you leave my parents out of this" type of personal.

The mayor wrapped up her reading of the Treaty of Treason, still clearly exhausted from the morning's proceedings. She had barely concluded her last sentence before Luka shoved her to the side. He thrust his chest out in front of him and cleared his throat. I assumed he would go straight into the Reapings themselves. With all the power offline, we could skip over that horrible propaganda video, right?

"People of District 10!" He announced, unfurling the scroll in his hand with a flourish. "I give you…_a dramatic reading of our nation's founding!_"

Oh no.

Oh _no._

"_WAR!_" Luka cried suddenly. The mic gave off a high-pitched whine, causing many of us to yelp and press our hands against our ears. Infuriatingly, our reaction only seemed to encourage him. Maybe he believed he was striking real fear into the hearts of his audience. "_Terrible…_war.

"Widows…orphans…" he roamed the stage, gesturing wildly into the crowd. He then sank to his knees and clenched his free hand into a fist. "A _motherless…child._"

This was a new form of torture.

"_This…_was the uprising that rocked our land."

"Someone please just kill me," I groaned aloud, tugging at both of my braids until my head ached.

Maybe, just maybe, I should have considered a different choice of words.

After what seemed like hours of strutting about the stage like a blind rooster, Luka ended his performance with a sweeping bow. He received scattered applause from the Peacekeepers and stunned silence from the rest of us, all except a cluster of drunk eighteen-year-olds who cheered wildly and called for an encore.

I could tell he'd have been more than happy, but he had a schedule to keep.

He drew a name from the female bowl and read it aloud: "Georgina Lamrock."

Of all the friggin'…great. Just great.

I allowed myself a second of extreme terror before I seized control over my gut reaction. This was just like any other encounter with Jock except, you know, deadlier. I had to be tough. I had to give the impression that I was a threat. Chin up, eyes narrowed, I ascended the stage, fighting to keep calm. I even managed a sideways smile for Veera before turning to face the crowd. She seemed to approve. Maybe she was just eyeing my bruises.

Luka, on the other hand, took in the sight of me and very likely threw up a little in his mouth.

Clearly at a loss for words, he gave up and drew the next name. "Roswell Hickey."

There was a beat. Another numb silence. A shifting amongst the eighteen-year old males. Finally, a tall, dark-skinned boy emerged. His bony arms hung awkwardly at his sides as he sidled his way through the relieved masses. When he stepped onto the stage, he kept his distance and avoided meeting any eyes.

Meanwhile, I couldn't find enough eyes to meet. There was Sue, her hands over her mouth. There were a couple of my girlfriends from the orphanage, hands locked in a white-knuckled grip. There was Madeline, already going into hysterics at the prospect of losing her last family member.

There was Jock, looking…grim? Like he actually felt bad for me?

Like hell that changed anything. If that was where he drew the line, it didn't exactly speak volumes for him as a person.

Could I bring myself to kill someone? Hard to say. But one thing was for certain. It sure would be a lot more tolerable after imagining one Jock Elliot in their place.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I don't have much to say this week, just a couple words of appreciation. ^_^ First of all, thanks to pigeonpoo for Georgie and winsomewinter for Ross! I enjoyed writing them, and the world and people around them developed quite naturally afterward. Tell me what you thought, and if there's anything you'd like me to focus on or change for future chapters. **

**And to all those who've reviewed...wow. I'm blown away by the amount of thought you've put into your responses. I'm definitely going to try to respond to as many as I can. I tried to focus on this chapter over the last few days (which I ended up revising a ton down the line), but starting conversations with fellow writers definitely helps with inspiration and bouncing ideas. **

**Finally, some guiding questions. Overall impressions of our new tributes? What will you remember about them? Also, this was a chapter that devoted more time (for good or for ill) to its side characters; any standouts on that front? **

**Cheers,**

**Grey**


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